Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle) (5 page)

As a SEAL, he’d learned self-control and patience in
the worst circumstances. Waiting to perform a rescue operation once, he lay on
his belly for six hours in a steaming, bug-infested swamp. He remained dead
still while lizards and poisonous snakes and the devil knew what else slithered
across his back and legs and the enemy marched past within inches. As a DEA
agent, he’d sat for hours across the table from a drug dealer until the guy
cracked from the mere pressure of the interminable silence.

But this female could make him jumpy with a flash of
her green eyes or a snide remark in her throaty voice. What was it about her?
Not just her curvy figure and snapping eyes, but something underneath. That
sense of loyalty and support he wished he had from his family.

Guanajo
. What a turkey he was. For now, he
would simply follow her to protect her. Sooner or later she’d uncover a lead or
decide to work with him. He had to be patient.

Patient, hell. He spat out a juicy Spanish epithet.

Keeping her old blue Sentra in sight, he looked around
for suspicious vehicles. Nada. Now that Olívas’s men knew he’d made them, they
would use a different vehicle, not the van. He’d sweet-talked Laurel in
Intelligence into rushing the trace on the van’s license number. Stolen
vehicle. No lead there.

At the York exit, more traffic poured onto the
multi-lane interstate. All the extra vehicles, like fish in a school, helped to
conceal him. He and Juliana breezed through the tollbooth with their electronic
passes. When they neared Kittery, he pulled closer to her.

When she accelerated speed, he hung back so as not to
crowd her. The moment he did, a black Lincoln swerved around him and pulled up
beside her. Shit. Olívas’s men. Maybe Olívas too, the sadistic slime. He
accelerated past an SUV. He had to catch up. If the bastards spotted him on
their tail, maybe they’d ease off Juliana.

A solid chain of cars cruised by him in the passing
lane and blocked his move.

Stuck behind a Volvo wagon, Rick slammed his hand on
the steering wheel. It was like going backwards in slow motion. What were those
bastards up to?

At last, his chance came and he yanked the wheel left
to pull around the Volvo and make it three cars closer. Juliana glanced to her
left. She immediately accelerated. Must have realized her plight.

Rick gunned it but a Chevy Silverado swerved in front
of him. The pickup’s height and size blocked his view. He had no police radio
or siren and no means of clearing the way. He stewed, as helpless as though
bound and gagged. “What the hell!”

The pickup shot back into the right lane in time for
him to see the Lincoln swerve in behind Juliana. In tandem, like racers on a
one-lane course, Juliana’s Sentra and the Lincoln zoomed across the Piscataqua
River Bridge from Maine into New Hampshire.

With Rick trapped two cars behind in the left lane.

The Sentra made an unexpected right and zipped out the
downtown Portsmouth exit. Swaying on its shocks, the Lincoln made the turn, a
couple of car lengths behind her.

Where was Juliana going? She hugged the exit curve
like an Indy racer. Her Sentra had less power but more agility than the
Lincoln. How the hell did she learn to drive that way?

Boxed in, Rick couldn’t make the exit. His last sight
of both cars chilled him to the marrow.

Out of the Lincoln’s open window jutted a long black
gun muzzle.

Chapter 5

Pops and thunks slamming into the car’s rear jolted
Juliana against the shoulder harness. Hands clammy, she gripped the steering
wheel. Her ears hummed and her heart raced faster than the Sentra’s motor.

Oh, my God, they were shooting at her!

More bullets rammed into the rear end. Plastic
shattered. A bumper or a taillight.

Her stomach roiled. Her throat tightened, threatening
to choke off air from her dry mouth. No, no, she had to pull it together. She could
do this.

Think!

It was like on the racetrack. At least one of Molly’s
men had been worthwhile. But her main advantage was that she knew the tangled,
one-way streets of Portsmouth, and her pursuers didn’t. She hoped.

She yanked the steering wheel to make the hard right
onto Deer. Then an immediate sharp left to High.

The black sedan dropped back. Still in pursuit but
less aggressive.

Traffic in downtown Portsmouth bustled with tourists
and local shoppers. More pedestrians than cars. A tour group crossed the street
behind her. They blocked the sedan.

More random twists and turns, and she swung into a
parking garage and out the other side. Then a left to Hanover and Maplewood.

She checked the mirror. No sign of the long black car.
She rotated her shoulders and flexed her aching fingers. Trembling shook her
all over but she could drive. The drug gang might know where she lived, but
maybe she could make it before they caught her.

How stupid to have kept her eye on the red sports car.
Just when she’d celebrated losing him, the black car appeared like a storm
cloud overtaking her. Jordan’s mess was a hell of a lot more dangerous that she’d
realized. Maybe Cruz was right.

Within minutes she reached her building’s parking lot.
She raced up to the second floor and safety. She bobbled the key and nearly
dropped it. Finally she made it inside and slammed home the dead bolt. Resting
her head against the cool wood of the door, she listened to the drumming of her
heart and choked back tears.

A fist pounded on the door.

Pulse in the stratosphere, she jumped aside. “I called
the police. They’re on their way.”

“Good, saves me from calling them. Let me in, Juliana.”

Her heart slowed to mach one. She leaned against the
wall and drew a deep, cleansing breath. Now she knew who owned the red sports
car.

She flicked back the lock and opened the door. To
conceal her relief at seeing him, she scowled. “Agent Cruz, what the hell did
you think you were doing?”

“What
I
was doing?” He stepped inside and
kicked the door shut. His dark brows bunched, and his black eyes blazed with
fury. “Only sticking close to protect you. But you lost me and gave those guys
their opening.”

She waved her arms. “Protect me?
Protect me?
You led them to me. They probably shot at me because of you! I . . .”

A Nor’easter of emotion hit her. She shook like a
sapling in the storm, and tears fell like rain.

Without comment, Cruz pulled her to him. He wrapped
his arms around her and held her to his warm, hard chest. He rubbed circles on
her back.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” she blubbered. “I never c-c-cry. I
don’t know what’s come over me.” When she tried to step back, he pressed her
closer. A white handkerchief magically floated before her eyes. She wouldn’t
think about how protected she felt and how good his arms felt or how she liked
his minty scent.

“Happens when you’re not used to being shot at.”

“Oh.” After blowing her nose into the soft cotton, she
looked up.

Rick Cruz wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever met.
Right. Okay, maybe he was. At the moment he wasn’t smiling. He gazed at her
with candid concern. There again was that protective attitude. But he was just
doing his job. She shouldn’t read anything into it.

“I’m all right now.” She edged from his embrace. “I’m
sorry I yelled at you.”

“You were scared.” He leaned against the door. “How
did you learn to drive like that?”

She lifted one shoulder in dismissal. “A man I used to
know worked at a race track. He showed me a few maneuvers.” She started to turn
from the door toward the living room, but Cruz took her hands and held her in
place.

“I don’t hear sirens,” he said. “Did you really phone
the cops?”

“No, I just said that to scare off the jerks in that
black car.”

“Then you ought to phone them now.”

“You’re right. Those men shot at me. There are bullets
in my car.” The statement churned her stomach.

“Looks like they hit the gas tank. There’s gas running
onto the parking lot. You’re lucky it didn’t blow.”

She tugged but he held her fast. “How can I phone if
you’re holding my hands?”

“Have you looked at your apartment?”

He released her and she pivoted. The upheaval in
Jordan’s flat couldn’t begin to match what a tornado had wrought on hers. Her
vision distorted like a funhouse mirror. “Oh, God!”

Cruz guided her to a chair and gently pushed her into
it. He picked up the phone from the floor and punched in 911.

“Now, Juliana, will you let me help you?”

*****

“Whoo-ee, Macmillan’s not gonna like this.” Donovan
drawled out a western-flavored expletive. Rick had phoned to inform his office
of the latest developments. “He’s been kickin’ ass about the lack of progress
on Operation Fish Truck.”

“Yeah, well, tell him the facts and get back to me.”
Rick hit disconnect on his cell.

Juliana was still talking to one of the Portsmouth
cops, but she kept casting glances at the disaster in her home. Probably
anxious to put things away. She didn’t seem capable of absolute stillness. She
twisted fingers together or tapped a foot or straightened something. The
nervous energy humming around her fascinated him.

“I don’t know what else is missing, officer,” she
said. “They might have taken my cat. I don’t see him anywhere.”

Possible, but the most likely outcome would be to find
the creature’s mutilated corpse tucked away somewhere. Or maybe the cat was
hiding. Shouldn’t be hard to search an apartment the size of a saltine cracker.
Rick started in the bedroom. Even with furniture upside down and drawers and
closets inside out, it was apparent she lived simply. Basic furnishings,
plants, and books. A few butterfly knickknacks. Tiny TV, not the latest
computer, older flip phone. Tight budget, this woman.

A new voice brought him from the bedroom. At the door
stood a flashy female holding a cat the size of his year-old nephew. She handed
the placid animal to Juliana. “Here’s Speedy, hon.”

Speedy? This brute?
Rick rubbed a hand across
his mouth to cover a smile.

“Oh, you’re safe, Speedy, you’re safe,” Juliana
crooned into the cat’s fur.

The soothing tone and her doting expression darted
prickles on his skin and sent heat south. He clenched his jaw.

“I found him sitting in the hall,” the woman said.

“Yes, ma’am.” The Portsmouth detective bobbed his head
like a puppet on a string. Apparently he was stuck for more questions. All
three cops could barely keep their tongues from hanging out at Juliana’s friend’s
voluptuous presence in a black leotard wrapped with a slinky leopard-print
skirt.

“This is my neighbor, Venice Aaron,” Juliana told
them. “Thanks, Venice.”

“No problem, hon.” Venice’s eyes widened. “What
hurricane hit this place?”

“Burglars. Speedy must have sneaked out when they
broke in.” She deposited the cat on the floor.

With a disdainful meow, the animal strolled with regal
grace to the bedroom.

“Burglars, huh?” Her dusky skin paled a shade, and her
gaze darted around the room. “I knocked, but you weren’t home. Then I had a
hair appointment.”

“Hey, Ms. Aaron,” Rick said, joining the group, “that
hairdresser is worth whatever you paid. Very foxy.”

Venice preened and smiled seductively. “You’re looking
mighty fine yourself. I’m Venice to my friends.”

Juliana swallowed the spurt of irritation. For all she
cared, that man could follow Venice home. Never mind that in his jeans and
khaki safari shirt he looked good enough to eat. Before she could return the
conversation to the situation at hand, Cruz did it for her.

“Venice, what time did you find the cat?”

“Two hours ago. Everything looked normal.” She propped
fists on hips. “You think those burglars were in here when I knocked?”

“Possible.”

The Portsmouth detective scrawled in his notebook.

“How did they get in?” Juliana asked. “The windows are
okay, and the door wasn’t damaged.”

Cruz nodded as if in approval she’d noticed the lack
of damage. “They picked the lock with professional tools that left only faint
scratches. They knew you weren’t home.”

“And I guess I know how. The black Lincoln.”

One swift stride brought him to her side. He slid an
arm around her shoulders.

She began to pull free, but the commanding spark in
his eyes held her in place. Against her will, she absorbed comfort from his
embrace.

“We lifted some prints,” the detective said, “but I
don’t have much hope about that. We have all we need for now, ma’am. We’ll do
everything we can to catch these burglars. Between us and the D—”

“We’ll contact you about the car,” Cruz said.

The detective tipped his head in agreement.

How could she have forgotten about the car? She couldn’t
get to work and to class without it. She couldn’t search for Jordan. “My car,
when will I get it back?”

“I’ll call you when we’re done with it. But that heap’s
gonna need work before you can drive it again.”

She groaned, visualizing the dollar signs in the
mechanic’s eyes. New gas tank. New taillights. Body work. Even with what
insurance would cover, she couldn’t afford repairs
and
school. Her credit
card was maxed out.

The detective turned to Venice. “Ma’am, we’d
appreciate it if we could take your fingerprints so we can eliminate them from
those we lifted in here.”

“You bet, Detective, sugar. You come with me.” On her
way out, she said to Juliana, “I’ll come back and help you straighten up.”

“Not necessary,” Cruz replied smoothly before Juliana
could. “She’s in good hands.”

“I can see that, doll.” Venice’s Cheshire-cat grin
told Juliana that her friend missed none of what just transpired. Including the
agent’s possessive arm around her.